


Late Night Run

by Wordsy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, RvB Secret Santa, Tuckington - Freeform, can be read as shipping or platonic, emotional angst, please let me know if there are any tags I should add, season 15 spoilers, the murder fridge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 19:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17372177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsy/pseuds/Wordsy
Summary: The sight is such a typical one that, at first, Tucker thinks nothing of it. Wash running laps on the deserted track by the barracks is nothing new.Except for the fact that it’s three in the goddamn morning.Or, Wash is haunted by the memory of his time spent in Temple's freezer. Tucker helps.





	Late Night Run

The sight is such a typical one that, at first, Tucker thinks nothing of it. Wash running laps on the deserted track by the barracks is nothing new.

Except for the fact that it’s three in the goddamn morning.

The haze of early morning mist hovers above the grass, illuminated by the stadium lights blazing down on the track circling a small football field. The base is perfectly still at this time of night. At least, it is now that Chorus is no longer at war. The steady chirp of crickets is interrupted only by the harsh crunch of gravel under Tucker’s shoes as he follows the path down to the edge of the track. He watches across the field as Wash makes the bend and starts to loop back to where Tucker’s waiting for him.

“Halloween’s not for six months, Wash,” Tucker calls as the Freelancer approaches.

Wash’s run slows until he staggers to a stop in front of the teal soldier, hands braced on his knees.

“What?” He pants.

“I said Halloween’s not for six months.”

“I heard you,” Wash says, wiping sweat from his eye. “But what does that- really? What month is it?”

Tucker shakes his head. “Dude, I don’t fuckin’ know. Chorus time is weird.” He points an accusing finger at Wash.  “But you’re supposed to leave me an opening to say, ‘It’s too early for the zombie costume.’” 

Wash just hums. He’s still hunched over, breathing heavy.

Tucker raises an eyebrow. “Why are you out here anyway?” He asks, the fucking definition of casual.

Wash straightens, rolling his shoulders.  “Couldn’t sleep.” He won’t look at Tucker when he says it.

“Hmmm.” Tucker crosses his arms. 

Wash bristles. “Why are you up?” He shoots back.

For the record, Tucker’s fine. He just needed some fresh air is all. He’s totally not wandering the base because his dreams are filled with the images of his best friend getting shot in the neck over and over again while he remains helpless to stop it.

It’s not that.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Tucker says simply.

Wash snorts derisively but is at least self-aware enough not to argue.  _ Jeez, he’s in a mood. _

The Freelancer bounces on his feet and shakes out his arms. 

“Alright, well,” Wash says, tone clipped. “Good night.” 

With that, he jogs off down the track. Barely a few yards later, Tucker catches up and sets an even pace beside him.

Wash side-eyes the soldier. “What are you doing?”

Tucker snorts. “Jogging, obviously,” he says. “You don’t mind if I join you?”

“Whatever.” 

_ Yep, definitely in a mood. _ Not that that’s unheard of, but the man’s looking pretty pale and Tucker not sure the blazing stadium lights are entirely to blame. Plus, Wash has got bags under his eyes most airports would check.

Tucker looks up at the night sky. “This is actually kind of nice,” he says, conversational as a cocktail party. “Not so crowded at three o’clock in the morning.”

Wash rolls his eyes and scoffs. “It’s not three in the morning.”

The teal soldier’s jog falters for a moment. “Dude, it’s closer to four. I was being generous.”

Wash blinks. “Oh. Huh.” 

He seems genuinely surprised, so now it’s Tucker’s turn to eye his friend suspiciously. 

“How long have you been out here?” Tucker prods.

Wash’s shoulders stiffen but he keeps up the pace. “Not long.”

Tucker clenches his teeth but says nothing.

They descend into a comfortable silence. The slap of their sneakers against the rubber track beats an even rhythm.

Tucker’s not lying- this is nice. There’s something magical about being up at such a late hour with no one else around, especially in a space that would usually be crawling with soldiers. The world doesn’t feel real at times like these. Problems don’t feel quite so real either.

Three laps in, Wash’s breathing quickens. After another two laps, he’s panting. Tucker’s working up the nerve to ask if he’s alright when Wash goes down.

It’s more of a collapse than a fall. One moment he’s running beside Tucker, the next he’s hitting the ground - hard.

“Fucking shit, Wash!”  The teal soldier back-pedals, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to get to Wash.

The Freelancer is already on his hands and knees when Tucker crouches down next to him.

“I’m fine,” Wash mumbles. 

“Um, fuck that fucking shit,” Tucker says, heart in his throat as he reaches for Wash’s arm. “What the hell, Was-”

Wash shakes him off, snarling, “Tucker, I’m fine!”

The man pulls away and Tucker can only sit back on his heels as Wash sits up. For a while, they sit in silence. Tucker chews his lip as he studies the Freelancer, who’s got his arms slung over his knees and hooded eyes on the ground.

“What happened?” Tucker asks, finally.

Wash blows out a breath. “I-I tripped.”

_ Yeah, fucking, right. _ “Maybe we should take a break.”

“I don’t  _ need _ a break,” Wash seethes, forcing himself to stand on wobbling legs. “I just-”

Tucker points to the Freelancer’s hands. “You’re  _ bleeding, _ ” he says, mouth set in a grim line.

Scraps from Wash’s collision with the track run down his forearms. It’s superficial but a few spots are oozing blood. From the startled look on Wash’s face, it doesn’t look like he’d noticed until now either.

Wash wipes his hands on his t-shirt and looks away. “It’s nothing.”

Tucker clenches his jaw but keeps his voice even. “Normally, I’d agree with you. But since it’s so late, I’m going to take it as a sign that it’s time to turn in and get some-”

“I’m not going to sleep.”

Tucker throws up his hands. “At least lie down and relax for once in your life,” he carps. “Jesus.”

“I can’t- I don’t need… I just need to keep moving,” Wash insists, even as he sways on his feet. “And it’ll be fine.”

“I’m gonna call bullshit on that.”

“Whatever,” Wash growls. He turns away and starts up his jog. “I’m perfectly-”

He barely gets a few paces before he goes down again, this time on hands and knees.

“Fucking shit!” Tucker yelps, at Wash’s side in an instant.  “That’s it. I’m calling Grey.”

“Don’t!” Wash jerks his head up. “You don’t need to call her I just, I just...” He trails off, but Tucker holds his gaze. 

Wash sighs. “Look,” he says, voice quiet. “I’ll go back to my room and sleep. Right now. But you don’t need to call her, okay?”

Tucker scowls.

“Fine,” he says, finally. “But I have one condition.”

* * *

“This is completely pointless.” Wash grumps. “I’m fine.”

They’re back in Wash’s room. Private rooms are a new luxury for the Reds and Blues courtesy of Kimball and the number of soldiers returning to civilian life. Tucker’s still getting used to not having a roommate that insists on getting up before dawn. He certainly never thought he’d miss it.

Wash lies on his cot, staring up at the ceiling with his arms crossed. “You don’t need to be here.”

“Hey,” Tucker says, folding his arms behind his head and wincing as he tries to get comfortable. The teal soldier’s making do with some blankets on the cement floor. “It’s this, or we take a trip to the infirmary.”

Wash huffs but says nothing.

Tucker looks over at Wash’s cot, though he can’t see the man from the floor. “It’ll be like a sleepover.” He offers. “You had sleepovers when you were a kid right? Except this one has the more serious purpose of making sure you don’t croak in your sleep.”

“I’m not going to croak.”

“Time will tell.”

“Yeah. Tell you I’m  _ fine. _ ”

Tucker grabs his pillow and throws it at the Freelancer. “Oh my god, just go to sleep, you fuck.”

The teal soldier settles in for the night. But only a few minutes later, just as he’s drifting off to sleep, his pillow returns, hitting him squarely in the face. 

He can hear the faint smile in Wash’s voice. “Good night to you too.”

* * *

Wash can’t move.

The pins and needles feeling that settled in his limbs a few hours ago has run its course from painful to complete numbness and Wash isn’t sure which is worse. At least the pain felt real. But the lack of feeling in his arms and legs leaves him with a disembodied sensation. Like the whole world has shrunken down to the interior of his helmet. The visor, his only window to the outside world has long since fogged over.

Wash releases a ragged breath. It hits the visor and blows back hot on his face. 

With his chest plate locked in place, he can barely expand his chest enough to take a full breath. And that’s not helping stem the panic worming it’s way up his throat.

Trails of condensation dribble down the glass, mingling with his own sweat. Despite the chill of the freezer, with the suit’s life support shut off, the helmet’s quickly become an oven of his own body heat.

Wash strains to make out shapes in the dark through the ice crystals creeping up over his visor. He’s lost sight of the blue of Carolina’s armor in his peripheral. There’s nothing to see and nothing to distract him. The room is deathly silent save for the hum of the freezer and his own uneven panting.

He’s not just trapped inside his suit, he’s trapped inside his own mind. The thought has his heart racing.

“Fucking moron got himself captured again. Big surprise.”

Wash’s eyes widen in spite of himself. He can’t get his hopes up again. It’s a hallucination. Just like all the times before.

But there are colors moving beyond the fog of his visor. Orange. Red.

Grif’s talking again. “How’s Carolina?”

“Right as rain!” Says Sarge. “Takes more than standing still to kill a Freelancer.”

“Agent Washington?” Blue fills his vision. Caboose. “Are you in there? Hello?”

Wash’s eyes sting with tears. He opens his mouth as a wane smile creeping onto his face, ready to tell them,  _ Yes, I’m here. _ To thank them for coming back for him as he knew deep down they would. They always come back.

But nothing comes out.

Wash’s breath hitches. He tries again. His mouth moves but the words aren’t there.

“Wash?”

“Agent Washington?”

“Hey, Blue. You still kicking?”

He tries to nod, but the helmet holds his head fast.  _ I’m here. _

“Huh. Guess he’s dead.”

Wash’s chest tightens. Why can’t he talk? Why can’t he speak? Oh, right. He got shot in the throat.  _ Just like Maine.  _ But that doesn’t happen until later.  _ This is all wrong. _

“That sucks. Better go tell the others.”

_ No, please, I’m still alive. _ His blood freezes as footsteps begin to fade. They’re leaving him here to die.

_ Don’t go. _

“Bye, Agent Washington,” Caboose says cheerily.

_ No. _ He tries to scream, tries to tell them this is wrong. He doesn’t get shot in the throat until later, it’s not supposed to happen like this. Everything’s mixed up and he can fix it if only he could get the words out. 

_ Come back. _

He hears the freezer door slam shut, leaving him silently screaming and alone save for the corpses he’ll soon join.

* * *

“Wash!”

Tucker. That’s Tucker.  _ Tucker’s here.  _ Tucker came back for him and the thought alone has Wash’s eyes brimming with tears. If only he could speak, tell Tucker he’s here, he’s alive. But the words don’t come, he’s gagging on air. 

_ Please don’t go, please don’t go, _ Wash begs in his mind. His body is numb with the chill of the freezer. He can’t move, he can’t form the words.

_ I’m still here. I’m still here. Give me time. I can prove it. Just don’t leave me alone again- _

“Wash, breathe.”

There are hands on his face, hands so hot they’re burning and Wash jolts at the sudden contact. The fingers are flames licking up his jaw but he leans into them all the same. He’s so cold. There’s frost in his lungs, prickling and scraping his throat.

“Breathe, man. Come on, you’re scaring me.”

Guilt lances Wash. He’s scaring Tucker. It’s all his fault. The thought’s enough to loosen something in his chest. He sucks in a short breath then lets it back out in a shuddering whoosh.

Reality comes crashing back over Wash like the slow curl of a wave. Tucker is leaning over him, face so close Wash can see the terror in his eyes even in the darkness of the room.

His room. The one on Chorus. Not  _ the _ room. Not the freezer. It’s too warm for it to be that after all, though he can still feel the chill on his skin. The dark closes in like the interior of his helmet.

“Stay with me, man. Keep on breathing. You’ve got it.”

Wash ignores the wetness on his cheeks and blinks bleary eyes. “Tu- _ cker?” _ It’s more of a croak than an actual word, but Tucker nods. 

Wash sucks in a shuddering breath and Tucker nods again in approval. Wash keeps it up - it’s the least he can do for scaring the man. Slowly, over the hammering of his heart, Wash listens as his whimpering pants die down leaving him shaky and boneless against the mattress.

Tucker drifts his hands to Wash’s shoulders. Wash can’t help but feel a rush of gratitude for Tucker not ending the contact entirely.

“Fuck, you’re shivering. Let me get-” Tucker pulls away, fumbling for the blanket kicked to the end of the bed, but suddenly stops in his tracks.

It takes Wash a few moments to realize why. Of their own accord, Wash’s hands are twisted in the front of Tucker’s t-shirt. The teal soldier’s staring at him, face unreadable in the dark room. 

Wash swallows, his pulse beginning to race again. He needs to let go, to let Tucker pull away and head for the hills, never looking back. But Wash’s trembling fingers only curl tighter.

Tucker reaches up and clasps his hands over Wash’s. Ever so slowly, he leans in, pressing his forehead against Wash’s and the Freelancer can’t stop the sigh of relief that brings.

“I’m here,” Tucker says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here.”

Even this close, Wash can’t meet Tucker’s gaze. There’s a churning in his stomach that has nothing to do with the memory of the freezer’s rancid smell. 

The feel of Tucker’s t-shirt under his fingers, the warmth of his hands and breath against Wash’s skin - it’s all so real. The man’s a lighthouse in the screaming squall of his nightmares. 

It’s selfish, he thinks, but Wash lets himself have this - these few moments of realness, of safety, of warmth. Because soon the rush of adrenaline will leave him. He’ll close his eyes and the nightmare will return. Again. And again.

Wash sighs and doesn’t bother hiding the pitiful whine that accompanies it. He’s so tired. He doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to go back outside in the cold night air and run until his legs give out. But moving’s the only cure he’s got for the nightmares. If he’s moving, if his muscles are burning with exhaustion, that means he’s not still locked inside his armor-

Wash’s breath catches in his throat.

The restlessness he’s grown so used to isn’t there. He’s shaking and tense, yes, but his body isn’t begging for him to prove he can move.

Wash shifts. Tucker pulls back - not all the way - just enough to look at him.

“How are you feeling?” He asks. His thumb rubs circles into Wash’s wrist.

“I-I don’t need to run,” Wash says haltingly, struggling to put words to the feeling.

Tucker shakes his head. “You don’t need to.”

“…don't want to.”

“Then don’t. Stay here.”

Wash nods. Tucker doesn’t move though. It takes Wash a few seconds to remember he’s still got a death grip on the front of the man’s shirt. He loosens his hold but doesn’t let go.

Tucker’s eyes stay on Wash’s face. “Do you want me to stay?”

Wash looks away. But after a moment he nods.

That’s all Tucker needs. He climbs into bed and pulls the covers over them. Wash scoots over. He tries to give Tucker space, guilt still twisting his stomach. But the teal soldier curls up at his side and throws a lazy arm over him. Hesitantly, Wash relaxes into the touch and it’s not long before he’s got his face buried in Tucker’s shoulder.

The cozy feeling of the extra body heat, the secure weight of Tucker beside him, the smell of Tucker’s t-shirt - it’s everything his dreams never are. So when Wash’s eyes start to droop, for the first time in a long while, he’s not afraid to close his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank [thisissupposedtobewitty](http://thisissupposedtobewitty.tumblr.com) on Tumblr for having the patience of a saint as this gift is quite late. I hope some good, old Tuckington angst makes up for it.
> 
> EDIT: I realized I forgot to share my fun fact- the description of the inside of Wash's helmet was inspired heavily by my own experience of walking around cons in my Washington helmet. Obviously, not as extreme, but boy does it get hard to wear for more than 10 minutes at a time.
> 
> Comments and critiques welcome!
> 
> Come say hi at [wordsysayswords](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com)


End file.
